Leaf in the Bottle
by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa
Summary: Reno/Tifa A cold winter night in Sector Seven and Tifa can barely afford to turn the heat on. That's life in the slums-even Turks know that.


Leaf in the Bottle

By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-

Author Notes: No, I am not turning into a het writer. I am simply stretching my skills and seeing how far I can push the envelope. So far, I've knocked a bunch of het pairings around. This is just another knot on the rope.

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Leaf in the Bottle

Winters in Midgar reminded Tifa of home.

It was not only the cold that reminded her of Nibelheim, but how everyone became more tense, readying themselves. For what, she wasn't sure. At home it was food and the oncoming snowstorm. Here, in this bustling metropolis where the wires corroded and froze around her, there was no snow. She couldn't even smell it—the mako stench wafted from the eight reactors and smothered the city in an eternal cloud of smog.

It was probably Shinra's price increase. Four percent more than last year—even Tifa felt that punch in her gut. There were more patrons than usual who would buy the cheapest thing on the menu (a glass of non-alcoholic cider with a horribly bitter aftertaste) and spent the entire night staving off the cold. It didn't help her business when they would congregate in her bar and not buy more—they weren't the only ones who could barely pay the heat.

At home (_what was once home_, she reminded herself) there was always enough heat. The mayor and his kin never felt the pain of frostbite on their toes early in the morning, like those in the poorer areas. Mrs. Strife and her son were an example of that. They had to conserve their wood because her father would take ten percent of whatever they cut. Winters were always cold for them.

Now she knew what it was like to conserve, to only turn on heat for a few minutes every hour and hope that the alcohol would swirl in her patrons and make them forget about the chilling room. It didn't always work.

Like with that damn Turk.

"It's balls-fuckin'-cold in here. Turn the fuckin' heat on," Reno said as he sloshed his glass of whiskey around. He took a gulp and slammed the imitation crystal glass down against the ring-stained bar.

"Can't," Tifa said, pulling out another bottle of whiskey, ready to pour the bastard another glass. She didn't like that he was in _her_ bar, drinking _her _liquor, and probably trying to find out what _her _friends were doing in the basement at that very moment (_trying to blow your company up in a flash of pretty fireworks_, Tifa scoffed under her breath.) Turks—they were good-for-nothing cockroaches under her feet.

"Why not?"

"No money," she replied caustically. "Your company is screwing my business. Turning on the heat costs me almost a hundred gil a day—I can't come up with three thousand a month. Not even you can drink enough to cover that. So," she gestured to the dials on the wall, "those don't go on until it gets really cold. As in your balls have already frozen and I need to thaw them out."

Tifa was not in the mood to deal with Reno tonight. He was right. Her fingers were numb and she could see her breath floating in front of her face. But there was another fifteen minutes before she could afford to turn it on again...

"You're going to lose customers if they get any colder."

"...I know." Tifa sighed and leaned on the counter, supporting her weight. She rolled her eyes when Reno's eyes trailed from her face down to the table. Really—could men not be so obsessed with her chest? _Jerk. _

"Well, I suggest you crank that bitch, babe. The boy downstairs ain't happy with you right now..." Reno winked suggestively. "But with a lil' heat and some more of that whiskey, he says that he'd like to get to know you bett--"

"Oh, shut it." She pushed herself from the bar and palmed the dial.

_Crank_.

A blast of warmth came spiraling into the room, and Tifa grabbed the whiskey bottle, pouring more into Reno's tumbler. He smiled and lifted the glass to his lips, smacking them against the cold side. "Don't need any ice," he joked.

Tifa let a small crack of a smile through. Still a jerk, but at least a little more tolerable.

"What makes you come here so often instead of one of those nice bars topside?" Tifa asked, pulling a hand towel from her beltloop. Swish, swish against the top, wiping off a few stray drops of liquor that dotted the surface like snow on her old bedroom window. "You get more stares down here."

"Well, babe, you wanna know?" He winked, as if sharing a bit of office gossip. He leaned forward and towards Tifa's face, his breath tickling her nose and jaw. "Because you're so damn pretty."

Tifa flushed. "Don't say that," she chastened, sharply looking around the room to see if any of the other patrons could see her fluster around like a drunk.

"Why not, it's true. You're really pretty, and topside ain't got none of those faces like yours."

Regardless of everything Tifa knew about the Turk in front of her, which all came from intelligence gathered by Avalanche, he wasn't really all that bad looking. If you scraped off his five o'clock shadow and straightened his tie, Reno could have even passed for attractive.

_Never mind that he's a Turk, _Tifa thought as she went back to dithering about the bar, glancing over at the nearby pinball machine. What would Barret say if he knew what she was thinking?

"You know, I'd like ta continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable," Reno said, laying some gil on the table, slipping his glass over the bills. "Meet me when you decide to close up shop for the night." Reno looked at her and blinked, a leisurely smile spreading across his face—a cat with a mouse sticking out of his mouth.

"Maybe," Tifa commented as she took the gil off the counter, noticing that the little stack of money was a little more than he usually gave. Three tens, a five and a handful of single gil: that was how much Reno rang up every night.

There was nearly five thousand gil in her hand, the thousand gil marker on one of the wet bills shaking in her palm.

"Hey, wait!" Tifa yelled as she looked up, but Reno was already gone. The door to the bar swung closed and the last of the cold was blocked out by the whirring of the heater.

Tifa looked back down at her hand, at the gil notes that were secure in her hand.

On the back of the thousand gil note was a brief message:

_Topside—__S.5.__  
S.H.Q.R.  
__RM.13.  
-Reno_

Carefully laying the gil into the till, Tifa grabbed a notepad and jotted down the address with thick, curvy strokes.

Just in case.

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